Doppelganger
by Appetens Scriba
Summary: Jackson thinks Dostoevsky is crap. He also thinks doppelgangers are most likely dangerous, because the thoughts he thinks about Stiles and Scott having doppelgangers are... disturbing.


Jackson stares down at "The Double" and curses himself for taking AP English, and then curses Russia for producing Dostoevsky, and then curses everything else because he can. He breathes deep and lets the air out through his mouth in a long, tragic gust of air meant to express his mind-deteriorating misery. It doesn't really help, so he just wraps his arms together across the table and sets the side of his head on his forearms. The wall is more interesting than the book.

Fuck.

He can't imagine having a doppelganger. Knowing himself, he figures he'd probably end up driving himself repeatedly into the wall of insanity trying to be better than himself. With his luck, his other self would probably become a werewolf and kill him. Which would suck, because Jackson really wants to be a werewolf.

So doppelgangers are bad. But then... what if there were two Allisons? He wouldn't mind that, because maybe he'd get one of them naked in his bed. But what if there were two Scotts? He snorts quietly and thinks that would probably be the worst thing ever. Two Scotts to ruin his life - maybe they'd be co-captains together and be all werewolfy on the field together and make his position on the team completely pointless because one of him couldn't possibly compete with two of them and they'd be all buddy buddy and fucking skip into the locker rooms and then the showers and, like, fuck each other in the angelic glory of themselves and suddenly Jackson is thinking about two naked, fucking Scotts.

Huh.

He frowns at the wall with his eyes wide and tries to return to his earlier thoughts of a naked Allison, but then oopsie he's back to where he was before. He clears his throat and turns his head so he's face first in the darkness of his arms, but it actually makes it worse for his eyes to be shut because, well, now he doesn't have the white painted brick and tacky inspirational posters distracting him.

He sits back up with a frown and glances at Lydia. Sweet fuck it'd be awful to contend with two Lydia's, no matter how naked they were. He smirks when he thinks that Stiles would probably cum in his pants at the sight, and then what the fuck he's thinking about Stiles having an orgasm with Stiles, all in detail too with their cheeks burning red and their stomachs tensing and legs twitching.

Huh.

Oh Jesus. He shifts in his seat and curses everything Russian because, well, he's definitely half-mast, and it's definitely disturbing because he can't quite convince himself that it was the brief thoughts of two Allisons and two Lydias naked that put him this state of halfway hard. The bell rings and he jumps, hoping to God and Buddha and Flying Spaghetti Monster and even aliens that it's not super obvious that he's... excited.

As his luck typically goes, just as he steps out of English Hell, Stiles and Scott pass him heading to the lunchroom, which is actually where he's going, which is actually embarrassing because he's kind of hard because he was kind of thinking dirty thought about two of his kind of least favorite people.

Kind of against his will his eyes meander south toward their asses. Two asses. If there were two of each, he'd be staring at four asses. That's a lot of ass, and unfortunately that'd be a lot of ass that he a lot wouldn't protest. Like at all. Because he actually thinks they have nice asses, and he knows if Danny could hear his thoughts he'd be smirking at him almost cruelly.

He decides to forego a decent lunch and sits down at the table with a bag of Cheetos. Apparently Allison and Lydia can teleport because they're already perched at the table eating their carrots and shit. He tries to think about there being four of their asses. Eh. His mind is apparently a rebellious doucheweasel because it goes right back to Scott and Stiles.

They plop down at the table and immediately start chatting to and making goo-goo eyes at the girls. Jackson angrily chews on a Cheeto.

Why does Stiles always have his mouth open? It's almost always open, either gabbing on about blah or blah blah or blah blah blah and Jackson thinks it's some kind of miracle that Stiles doesn't have incessant chapped lips with how often he licks at them. Really, why? Why is he thinking about his mouth open around, like, other things, or licking, like, other things? Does he pant open mouthed when he's fucking? And doing it with himself? Why is Jackson thinking about this? Seriously why?

He continues chewing the hell out of his Cheetos and shifts his eyes toward Scott. What a dick. Although, Scott actually doesn't have a bad looking dick. Which isn't to say Jackson checked him out in the shower once or five times, but it's also not to say he didn't. Some dicks though just look... kind of awkward. Scott's doesn't though. Two Scott dicks would look even better. Two Scott dicks and two Stiles dicks which is four dicks and now he's thinking about a doppelganger foursome, because Stiles also doesn't have a bad looking dick, because, yeah, maybe Jackson checked him out like once or ten times.

He's out of Cheetos. He frowns at the bag, crushes it in his hand, and tosses it on the table. It slowly unravels. Stiles is glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. Sure, Stiles has pretty eyes and actually an overall pretty face, and, well, the splatter of moles on his neck and cheek isn't nearly as unappealing as one would think, but Jackson still wants to punch him in the face. And do other things to his face.

Jackson raises his eyebrows at Stiles, so Stiles shoves a fry in his mouth and looks vaguely at Lydia and Allison.

Scott's got the same kind of face. Pretty eyes and an overall pretty face, and a very crooked jaw that isn't nearly as unappealing as one would think. Jackson wonders if Scott was born that way or if someone like himself was unable to resist the urge to punch him in the face and permanently knocked his jaw out of place. They probably didn't realize a crooked jaw would look... appealing.

What would their doppelgangers think of themselves? Jackson knows he, physically, is a gift from God, etc., but what would Stiles think of Stiles? What would Scott think of Scott? Actually, what does Stiles think of himself and what does Scott think of himself? Does Stiles realize he's like a thousand percent bendoverable? Does Scott realize he's also legs spreadable?

Oh.

He suddenly realizes with abject, horrifying, brain-curdling clarity that he wants to fuck Scott and Stiles stupid. And maybe get fucked stupid, and oh my god he's officially having a Gay Crisis. Because of Scott and Stiles. But mostly because of fucking Dostoevsky.

Jackson glares at the unraveled Cheeto bag and curses AP English, Russia, Dostoevsky, doppelgangers, and everything else.


End file.
